


her

by apolliades



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, F/F, Forbidden Love, Heartbreak, Marriage, One-Sided Relationship, POV Second Person, Realization, Secret Relationship, Technically ..... oops, altho it is pretty mild angst compared to my usual standard of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-04
Updated: 2015-11-04
Packaged: 2018-04-30 01:08:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,181
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5144747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apolliades/pseuds/apolliades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>She is always there. She will not leave your side, not for anything — you know that, you believe it with your whole heart because you can see it to be true, written plainly on her face, in her knowing blue eyes. </i>
</p>
<p>   <i>You love her.</i></p>
<p>anne realising that she loves constance more than anything in the world.</p>
            </blockquote>





	her

_Constance._

It’s right there in her name, the list of reasons why you love her. Never in your life have you met a soul with a name so right, so perfect and fitting to them that you could not even imagine her with a different one. Nine letters divided into two neat syllables that pull your mouth into an easy natural smile as they fall from your lips. Nine letters in two neat syllables spelling _Constance_ but at the same time spelling _peace_ and _trust_ and _kindness_.   

Constance. Constant. Loyal. Unwavering. True. 

She is always there. She will not leave your side, not for anything — you know that, you believe it with your whole heart because you can see it to be true, written plainly on her face, in her knowing blue eyes. 

You love her.

You know you love her, of course you do, truly and purely and deeply the way women friends love one another. You love the way she smiles at you, open and genuine and bright, enough to light up the darkest of rooms or the saddest of souls. You love the way she speaks to you — the other ladies you are surrounded with are stiff and formal, there because they want the position, the grandeur, the richness and security of life in the palace. They gossip behind their fans and slim white fingers and your back, murmuring silly rumours and made up stories they invent to keep themselves entertained on long days when there is nothing more for them to do than lie about and titter. Constance does not, never has, never would. She speaks to you with an easy, gentle familiarity, once she has settled into her new life and new role and shed her initial endearing nervousness. You have watched her grow comfortable and happy in the palace and it makes your heart swell.  

You talk of everything to her. There is nothing you cannot share, no secret you could not trust her with. You confide in her even your brief yet desperately passionate affair with Aramis, one night when it’s late and you’ve been sharing wine and combing each others’ hair, sitting crosslegged together on your bed like little girls. She has the brush in one hand and your yellow curls in the other and is combing through so gently you barely feel it. She never tugs. The conversation has turned to the subject of love, of romance, as it so often does between young women. Constance breathes a sigh so soft and poignant that it tugs at your heart as she speaks quietly, longingly of the musketeer d’Artagnan, her voice low as if she hardly dares to speak aloud of him at all.  

Listening to her talk about him with such love and care and concern makes you feel something strange in the pit of your stomach, something you will come later to recognise as jealousy. You want to comfort her, because you cannot stand her sounding so unhappy, cannot stand the way her face falls and her voice stumbles. She is so honest with you, reveals to you a vulnerability that you feel honoured to be allowed to see, since you know she does not show this side of her to any other living soul. Not even beloved d’Artagnan. You are endlessly grateful for these moments Constance shares with you and only you. You cherish them close and dear to your heart. 

So you tell her of Aramis, of how just the act of meeting his gaze across a room was filled with deeper meaning, ignited more feelings of love and passion in your chest than anything you had ever shared with Louis. Louis, who is your husband and the King, and whom you love — you do love him, and care for him, but the feelings run no deeper than royal duty. Your love for Aramis was so different you hardly believe the same word could even describe it. You tell her of how you felt and experienced things in one night in his arms that you had scarce been able to imagine before; things that made your heart beat quick and your blood run hot, and even as you speak the words now, so many months later, in your softest most secret voice, your face colours pink with the thought of it. You turn to face her on the bed, blushing, and she looks at you with nothing but love, and understanding. She always understands. Sometimes you feel so connected to her that you can communicate in nothing but glances and smiles. 

Constance takes your hands and looks into your face and smiles gently, with sadness in her eyes, sadness that you know is there for you. For your circumstances. For your life, of duty and obligation and acting for the sake of France and the King, never for yourself, never for love or happiness. Never — except that night.  

“You’re in love with him,” she says softly, the words not quite a statement but not quite a question either. Your cheeks burn, and you turn away.  

You never really know if you are in love with Aramis, or in love with what he represents — freedom, defiance. Selfishness. Nothing can come of it either way, no matter what your feelings are — you are the Queen of France, and shall remain so until you die, and have been destined to be since you were born. You think of Aramis when your heart is lonely, but your heart does not break. You can survive without him. And now with Constance by your side you begin to forget what it’s like to be lonely. She is there, always. She makes you feel warm. 

He begins to break her heart, and you ache to see it happen in front of you. You suppose it is inevitable, for d’Artagnan is a man, and not only a man but a musketeer, and while he is as loyal and brave and good as any other man you know — infinitely more so, even, as all your musketeers prove themselves to be —what else do men do, but break the hearts of women.  

You watch her lip tremble and her face fall and her hands wring and you coax from her gently that they have argued again, fought again. She always speaks of him so kindly, even when when he has hurt her, and it stirs an anger, a defensiveness in you that you did not know until now you were capable of feeling. Even when she tells you of his cruel words and accusations, her voice is gentle. She cries hopelessly after trying so hard not to, and you take her hands in your own and pull her close to you, pressing soft kisses to her face, her tearstained cheeks, her forehead creased with lines of worry you long to erase, her soft brown curls. You let her cry and you do your best to comfort her, wishing you could make her see how much she is worth, how much more she deserves than a man who will hurt her so badly that she weeps so pitifully. Constance is strong, and she never cries for long, never allows herself to get lost in despair. It is only minutes before she composes herself, gives you a watery smile and apologises. You tell her she must never be sorry and you comb her hair back into place and you yearn to pull her close to you again. 

When you see d’Artagnan next your jaw tenses and your expression hardens and you turn away from him, the picture of Constance’s broken weeping face engraved in your memory.  

It doesn’t take too long before the lovers make up, and through a door left ajar you glimpse the pair of them entwined, Constance’s face in d’Artagnan’s gloved hands as he kisses her goodbye before she sweeps into your chambers, blushing and flustered and smiling radiantly as she curtsies. You smile back at her and sit together by the window, looking out over the grounds, and listen to her talk about him. Her voice is shy but full of happiness, and it should make you feel happy, too. Instead, you feel empty, and you don’t know why.  

You do not realise that your love for her runs deeper than the love of a queen for her closest confidante until weeks later, on one dismal evening when you spend the night with your husband in his bed. He kisses you roughly and messily, with want and lust but without tenderness or passion. You let him grope at you clumsily and try not to let your discomfort and your lack of interest show, try to pretend you are enjoying his attentions, until you are lying on the bed with him above you, grunting and thrusting with his face buried in your breasts so he cannot see you and you let your expression fall blank. You close your eyes and let yourself daydream, at first trying to conjure images of Aramis, trying to remember how it had felt to lie with him — images that can make nights with the King just a little more bearable when you think of them. Your mind wanders, out of your control, and you let it — until the face on the backs of your eyelids is not Aramis’ anymore, is not even the face of a man, and you realise with a half-stifled gasp that you’re seeing _her,_ thinking of _her._  

Your mind draws you again and again to Constance, painting pictures of her face, hair loose around her like a halo, eyes half lidded and rose lips parted. Constance, half undressed, nightgown unlaced, lying on your bed; Constance, back arching and fingers twisting in the silk sheets in the throes of pleasure; Constance’s soft delicate hands on your skin instead of Louis’ fumbling ones; Constance, Constance, Constance —  

You moan aloud, you shiver, your body tensing in a way you have not felt in months; you shudder and gasp and clutch at the sheets as warmth spreads from somewhere deep and still almost totally unfamiliar inside of you. You realise it now. You realise everything in sudden sharp clarity, and the only thing you don’t understand is how it could have taken you so long. You love her. You love her in every way it is possible to love someone. You love her so much it frightens you. 

Above you Louis grunts and thrusts and finishes finally, and rolls off of you, looking self-satisfied and smug. He presses a hard kiss to your cheek that makes you wince, and turns over, and is snoring within minutes. You wait until you are certain his sleep is deep enough that he won’t wake, and then you get up and clean yourself of his sweat and fluid, and you dress yourself in your discarded nightgown, and return quietly to your own chambers. You stand in silence at the doorway to Constance’s room, one hand cupped around the flame of the candle you carry so the light does not disturb her.  

You gaze at her for what feels like hours, watching her chest rise and fall with the gentle breath of sleep, her curls spread out loose and dark on the pillow around her head, her face relaxed and unlined, her mouth open ever so slightly. Your heart aches. Your hands shake. Your head spins. No answers come to you, no explanation. You love her, and that is all there is to it, all there ever has been, all there ever will be. You love her. You love her. You love her, so much your heart overflows with it, aches with it, and you cannot have her. You know that just as surely as you know you love her, because how could you? How could you have her? You are the Queen of France. Your position would not allow it, even if the law did not already forbid it. The King may take a mistress, of course, but you are not the King. You wish briefly that you were, a silly, trifling thought, but one that hurts nonetheless. 

You go back to bed and lie awake in the dark. You love her. You cannot have her. You accept this as fact, and you do not sleep that night.  

Nothing changes between Constance and you, but then, why should it? Your feelings are no different just because you have realised them. She still looks at you with love and admiration and the deepest tenderness, and you look at her like she is the brightest star in the sky. You walk in the Palace grounds with your arms linked and hands touching, laughing, talking of anything and everything, and you think, you can be happy like this. You can love her like this, purely and simply. You can love her as your dearest friend and closest companion and you will be happy. What else could you need, what else could you want, what else could you ask for? Nothing. You have her at your side. You are happy.  

You survive so much with her that you are certain should have destroyed you otherwise. Her loyalty to you as her friend and her Queen does not falter, not for a breath, not even when it feels like everyone else in the world is against you. You survive childbirth, violence, trauma; you survive isolation, threats, fear, loss — and by the grace of God, you survive Rochefort’s last awful attempt on your life. And through all of it, Constance is there. Constance, who suffers blows of her own, who loses her husband and almost loses her d’Artagnan, and comes as close to losing her life as you do. And still she remains strong, for you. She clasps your hands tight when they shake. She never leaves your side until she is taken by force. 

When it is all over, leaving you shaken and afraid but still breathing deep and steeling yourself and standing tall — because you are brave, even if you can’t quite see it, you are nothing if not brave — you ask Constance to stay in your bedchamber with you that night. You cannot bear the thought of being alone. And you cannot bear the thought of being without her; you are afraid to let her out of your sight, lest she is taken from you again, even though the threat has passed. 

Of course she says yes, because when has Constance, who is sweet and kind and generous, ever denied you anything? 

She helps you to dress for sleep, and then you sit on the edge of the bed and turn your face away as Constance undresses in front of the fire, because you know if you look that you won’t want to tear your gaze away. You watch her shadow of her body that the firelight casts instead, flickering on the carpet. When you say your prayers you thank God and Mary and Jesus over and over for Constance. You thank them for keeping her safe and bringing her back to you. She sits beside you and smiles gently and you lean into her and hold each other and neither of you says a word about how the other trembles.  

She combs out your hair with a touch as light as a ghost’s and then you lie facing her, knees touching. Her eyes are heavy with exhaustion and you watch her struggle to keep them open for a minute before letting them close. Her eyelashes are long and dark and delicate and cast soft shadows over her cheeks. You trace them with your fingertip and your touch startles her eyes open and you watch her pupils dilate and contract as they adjust to the light. She looks at you. She is beautiful.  

You kiss her on the mouth and the world stops turning. Your heart stops beating. Time stops passing. Everything stops. The only thing in the world is her and everything in the world is as it should be just for that second, just for that one fragile moment where your fingers are on her cheek and your lips are on hers. 

You draw back with your heart beating suddenly too fast and your breath catching in your throat and she just looks at you. Her eyes are wide and her lips are just a little damp from your kiss and she looks at you and says nothing. You kiss her again, hesitant this time, and this time she responds, her fingers finding their way into your hair and clutching at your nightdress and you kiss her and pull her close and lie with her at last like you have so many times in your head and in your dreams. Her skin is warm and her touch is soft and this is bliss, this is bliss, and you love her, you love her, you love her.

You fall asleep together and the next day act as if nothing has changed. She does not kiss you and so you do not kiss her either, you do not dare. She doesn’t touch you in any way other than as a friend, and when your gaze lingers on her she blushes and turns away. You tell yourself this is best, this is how it must be, but your heart aches.  

Constance marries d’Artagnan. She tells you the day before, excited but shy at the same time, speaking in a rush, colour high on her cheeks. She can’t stop smiling, but she can’t look you in the face, either. You smile too, and hold her hands and kiss her cheeks and tell her how happy you are. You lie. 

You do not attend the wedding because you are the Queen and there are more important things for you to attend to but you know it is happening and it is all you can think of. You hear that the ceremony is small and quiet. When Constance returns from her honeymoon it is to live with her new husband in a house of their own, and the room amongst yours that had been hers is left empty. Her things are gone from it, so it isn’t her room, now. Just a room she used to sleep in. Just a room, another in the endless maze of rooms that make up the Palace.  

You are the Queen; moments of peace and solitude are rare for you. You steal them when you can. You go to what had once been her room and sit on the edge of the bed and smooth the sheets. You put your fingers to your lips. There’s no trace of her in this bed anymore.

She is still your friend, you tell yourself, but she isn’t _yours,_ and even though she is your friend things are going to be different, now. She is devoted to you still, but you will come second, now, to the man she loves. You realise that in truth, you always have.

And your heart breaks. 

And you love her. You love her. You love her.

 

**Author's Note:**

> okay, i don't know why this is in second person. it just happened, and i feel like it worked? i hope it worked. let me know !! also sorry i made it so miserable at the end lol sorry anne. love u anne. also sorry i skimmed over like... anne's baby ...... and the shit with rochefort.... it's been a while since i watched series 2......... sorryyyyyy thanks for reading 
> 
> http://ttaibhse.tumblr.com/post/132537841732 ♡


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